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He looks up from the glass of whiskey he's barely touched. "It is."

"You didn't tell me."

"I don't do birthdays."

"Everyone does birthdays."

His mouth twitches without any real humor in it. "It's a little different when every milestone birthday you've ever had was someone else's payday."

I go still.

He takes a sip. Sets the glass down. In normal Everett style, he doesn't elaborate... but he doesn't need to.

I already know about his mother. About the payouts and the milestones that weren't celebrations but transactions. Every birthday, and every accomplishment was less about him and more about what she stood to gain from him reaching the next mark.

Of course he doesn't do birthdays.

Of course he didn't tell me.

I stand up.

His eyes follow me as I move across the cabin.

I stop in front of him. He's slouched against the seat—jacket off, shirt open at the collar, the edge of the sunburn still visible above the white fabric. His legs are spread slightly, his arm resting along the back of the seat, his whiskey abandoned beside him.

He looks up at me with an expression of slight confusion. He hasn't already calculated my next move. That's a first and there's a little thrill that runs through me that he doesn't know what's going to happen next

"What are you doing?" he asks.

I reach for the buttons of my dress. The zipper at the side. I pull it down slowly and let the fabric slide off my shoulders, down my arms, past my hips. It pools at my feet in a puddle of black silk.

Underneath I'm wearing nothing but the lingerie Lana packed. It’s black and lace… and completely see-through.

His hands tighten on the armrest, his tongue sliding over his bottom lip.

"Aria."

"You just gave me one of the most incredible nights of my life," I say.

I unclip the bra and let it fall to the ground, pushing down my panties next, until I'm completely naked.

"You arranged a private showing of paintings I never thought I'd see in person. You gave me back something I thought grief took from me permanently." I step closer. Between his knees. "And now I want to give you something back."

His jaw clenches. "You don't have to—"

"I know I don't have to." I lower myself onto his lap, one knee on either side of his hips, my hands settling on his shoulders. "I want to."

His hands come to my waist automatically. Warm and large and steadying. Everything about Everett's hands on my body feels right.

"What do you want for your birthday?" I ask softly.

His eyes move over my face. Down to my naked body and then back up.

"You," he says. Just like that. Just the raw, stripped-back truth.

I lean in and kiss him.

Slow at first. My hands frame his jaw, tilting his head back, controlling the angle in a way I haven't before. Every other time we've done this, he's been driving—Leading. Taking and giving.